Stories

So this telemarketer from Sears just called and asked for Jon. And since I knew immediately that it was a telemarketer I told her no, he wasn’t here, but if she’d like to leave her name and home telephone number, I’m sure he’d love to call her back at an inconvenient time. And I don’t think she even heard me because she just sort of ignored me and said, “Well then, is Jon’s wife available?” And normally I would have said no, but I couldn’t help but wonder how she knew that he was married, and if she knew that much information, what else did she know? So I said, “Yes, I am Jon’s wife,” and before I could ask her how she knew that he was married, or if she also knew that he has a chronically unmanageable thicket of curls covering his entire head, or that he can’t sleep in past 7:30 AM on any given morning, and that when he wakes up he has the cutest uncontrollable urge to tap me and nuzzle my neck even though I’m usually grumpy and covered in a thick film of my own morning breath, or that he bought me Mother’s Day presents on behalf of the dog, or that he can stand to be around my family even though they’re abrasively Southern and very into plastic plants, or that he can wield a weed whacker LIKE NOBODY’S BUSINESS, or that he has such a remarkable relationship with the dog that the dog will only go pee if he is standing nearby, or that he hits his head on the heating ducts every single time he goes into the basement and vows that he is going to cover those fuckers with foam but never gets around to it, or that he has the most beautiful hands, perfectly aged and rough from working every day of his life and that there is nothing more satisfying in this life than to look down and see those hands gripping my waist, or that he can stand a certain way when he comes home from work, slightly angular, his arms heavy from fatigue, and that it makes my heart beat so fast that I can burn an entire package of Twizzler’s Cherry Nibs worth of calories just by looking at him, before I could ask her any of this, she made the monumental mistake of asking, “Well, does he allow you to answer his phone calls?” And I know she didn’t mean any offense, or at least for a split second I gave her the benefit of the doubt and assumed she didn’t mean any offense, but after that single split second I gave into the hackles on the back of my neck and answered rather lovingly into the speaker phone, “I’m not sure about that lady, but I am sure that your husband ALLOWS you to be a cunt.” And if she didn’t know before, she knows now that Jon allows me to use such language.